I knew it was game over when Owen died. I can say he was a hero, although a terribly misguided one. His heart slowed, and then stopped altogether. Death is something I grew accustomed to, over time. There was blood, gushing out of the bullet wound at his neck, spilling onto the pavement. It has a unique smell: metallic, pungent, sickening. The pale color to his face, the widening of his eyes, and the struggle to breathe: it was all too similar to many other deaths I've seen. I got used to everyone around me dying. In my trade, it's hard to stay alive for very long. I guess I'm lucky. It's not that I like death, that I'm cold, callused to feeling any loss or pain. Every time someone I care about, Owen, in this case, draws his last breath, it hurts. But I have to learn to live with it, even through the feeling like a gaping hole has been torn in my heart, irreplaceable. It's hard; it always is. He died trying to save a friend's life. I can't blame him for that.

I can't blame King either. Thrust into a situation like that, it was hard to expect him to maintain formation. He wasn't the youngest guy on the force, but inexperienced nonetheless. Real fighting is a whole other world from target practice. Bullets flying, noises, the shaking of your own heart causes you to be afraid. And these people shooting weren't just a street gang; they were trained IRK terrorists. If only he had been braver, even a little braver, it might have saved his life. But "if only" doesn't exist. What exists now is the most clear certainty that we, Cole and I, die together, or one of us draws fire and lets the mission live on. I would never ask Cole to do that for me, or for the sake of the whole city for that matter. Today, I'm target practice. I sometimes wish I could leave the world, floating, dead, only to return later. "If only". Hah.

"I lost two of the snipers." Cole's voice broke my thoughts. "If we're gonna make a move, we got to do it soon, Jack." His face was tense, apprehensive. He looked angry even. I was too, since these bastards killed two good men. And now, they were going to get three.

I said quickly, "We can't give covering fire for something we can't see. We need to give them something to shoot at."

His eyes widened, alarmed. I tried not to think about the gravity of the situation. I blotted it out completely as I continued, "I'll make a break to the north. Try and draw their fire. You make a run for the call box."

I felt like I had to rush the words out of my mouth. If I dwelled on them for longer, I might not go with the plan. But it was the only plan that left us alive, or, at least Cole. It was the only way to stop the nuclear attack. I don't know why I always put everyone else before myself. I…I really don't.

"That's a suicide play, Jack. You'll never make it."

I didn't let his words sink in and take root. Cole was just stating what was already clear. Didn't he understand? I try to explain it to him, keeping my face blank, free of emotion. Now was not the time to get gushy and sensitive.

"But you will."

Cole snapped back, "I can't let you do that."

I should have said thanks, because it wasn't often that people took a liking or concern for me. There were some that were different, beings I could relate to. Cole was one of them. I wished, right then, in a small instant, that I could have known him better. I was already resigned to fate, as I always have been. I replied, my voice raised, "I'm in command here. That's what's going to happen. Do you understand?"

He pursed his lips, obviously upset. Of course he had to be upset. We were in a god-forsaken shipyard with almost no ammunition left and terrorists closing in. There was no other way. I waited for him to respond. He seemed to be turning it over and over again in his mind, then he let air out and nodded, in defeat. His agreement startled me, but that's because there aren't a lot of people that think like me. I hadn't expected him to give the okay. I nodded too, preparing myself for what I had to do. It was what I had to do. I had to keep telling myself that.

Then I remembered. I looked out the narrow opening to our position, into the night sky. I wondered what she would think of this, how she would react. I—I thought we had the whole rest of our life. Now, I had only a few more moments. The weight of it melded into my chest, a metal weight, sinking my heart down towards my stomach. It made me weary, wishing I wasn't here. I wished I was in Los Angeles with Kim and little Teri. But then, I never would have met Renee again. If only, if only, if only…

I slowed my thoughts, gathering them like scattered pieces of broken glass. I said quietly, "I need you to do me a favor."

"What?"

"Make sure Hastings keeps his promise. That he doesn't bring Renee back in," I said. It was a last wish. I wondered how Renee would react, but also Kim. Teri. How would Kim tell her that grandpa wasn't coming back? I shoved these thoughts back.

Cole's face was dead serious. He said honestly, "I give you my word."

I felt relieved, though only by a fraction. I was ready to give my life, but I didn't do it because I had nothing left. A few years ago, with the events in D.C., I had nothing left. Now, I had my daughter. A granddaughter. A…I didn't know what I should call Renee. It disturbed me, how I was so eager to throw that all out. No, not eager. It was a necessity. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then rushed on.

"It's not going to be long before they start firing on you," I said as I picked up my gun, preparing it to fire. Sweat beaded on my forehead. This was either going to work or fall flat. There was no choice in another means of attack. All I had to do, I thought to myself, was go out and fight for my life.

"Good luck, Jack."

I ignored the fact that I didn't have much luck in the first place, since we were stuck in this mess. I sidestepped his comment, not because I didn't appreciate it, but that I didn't want him to be upset when I was dead with bullet holes all over my body. Not a nice image, but one I truly believed was what was to happen.

"You get to that call box," I said firmly. That was all that mattered now. Not my family, not Renee, not Chloe. All that made a difference was Cole reaching that call box. We stood. I rested my back against the cold metal crate, gulped in a breath of air, and nodded to Cole.

"Go."

My world was a mass of loud peals of gunfire, lights flashing in my eyes. I kept my eyes on the targets, praying, pleading that they didn't fire on Cole. I was their sitting duck. I could feel my pulse pounding against my temple, my heart racing. My mouth had dried, yet sweat trickled like streams down my face. I moved out into the open, still firing at the terrorists, who were ducking behind the huge crates and barrels that crowded the sides of the shipyard.

Time flies when you're doing something stupid and adrenaline-pumping. Before I knew it, I was in the middle, taking fire from three different people. A bullet took a piece my shoulder, and I went down. A dull pain in my side, and a sharp pain in my shoulder were only a few of the senses I felt. Gunfire. Shouts. The smell of blood, that same pungent, metallic scent. It was my own blood. I fired at the moving people, but they were all a blur. I knew Cole couldn't be in my range, so anything that moved was free game. I tried to keep my mind clear, but it was gradually slipping into panic. I guessed it was something like what King felt. Terror of dying.

Only, I wasn't afraid. I'd stared death in the face too many times to be afraid. The ominous click that entered my cluttered mind told me too much. I was out of ammo. And there was a man standing behind cover, now about to come out. That would be the end. I quickly pulled my hand gun. I tried to aim, chest or head. But I was too confused. I felt the thud of two bullets entering my chest. The edges of my vision were turning black. It was the color of death, well, at least for me. Chinese believe white; other cultures choose red as death's color. Black worked just fine for me. My vision was gone; my ability to move was gone. But I could hear, if only for a moment longer.

Another pistol's fire shrieked in my ears. My last, I thought my dying, thought was: Cole is firing a machine gun, not a Glock. Who came?

Then hearing gave out. All sense of feeling left my fingers.

I couldn't tell the difference between dying and just going unconscious.

Jack. Jack, Jack, Jack…

Someone grabbed my chest gear. I was rudely pulled out of reverie, panicked. Opening my eyes, I quickly closed them again. Pain consumed everything I thought. My shoulder complained; my chest burned like it was on fire. I wondered what this person wanted with me. Who was this?

As if to answer my question, she said, "Jack. It's okay. It's me: Renee. Shh, it's okay."

I allowed my eyes to open into slits. And there she was. I don't believe I had ever been so happy to see her. I couldn't express this very well though. I was nearly screaming from pain. But I didn't want her to hear me like that. My plan worked. And, miracle of all miracles, I was still alive. I gasped for breath, choking, not able to breathe.

She lifted my head up, and I was able to draw in air. But that made the pain worse, sending terrible shockwaves throughout my upper body. I forced myself to speak, "They've got the fuel rods. They're taking them across the river—into the city." I felt like my heart was about to explode, and I lost air again. I ached to see her so worried; I ached all over. Now that she was here, I didn't want to die. I couldn't die now.

I gasped, "I can't breathe." I closed my eyes again, grimacing, panting.

Don't die. Don't die. Don't die, I thought quickly.

While I was the perfect example of hysteria, Renee was calm. Her hands were steady, firm. She couldn't hide relief in her voice when she said quietly, "It's okay. Nothing went through."

Thank God. I breathed in, out, vainly trying to steady myself. I was completely failing.

"Relax, Jack. You may have a collapsed lung. Try not to move."

I rested back against the pavement, closing my eyes, making myself immobile. I heard footsteps run up and twisted my head to see Cole. His big, expressive eyes were filled with concern.

"Jack, I just got through to CTU. They're back online. If they send out any choppers were still have a good chance of finding them."

I nodded slowly, still gripped by shudderings up and down my torso. The throb in my shoulder was growing into a needle grip. I was able to keep my eyes open now, and I saw her face staring down at me. I hardly noticed when Cole left. He did as much as he could, and he was the real winner here. I was the stupid one. I reminded myself to thank him later. But for then, I was looking at her. She was the anchor that kept me from slipping back into unconsciousness. It always seemed that she was the one there in the toughest times. When I was dying after the D.C. events, she stood by my side until the ambulance doors shut.

She stroked her hand across my forehead. Her fingers were speckled with blood. I felt it seeping through my shirt, but it wasn't too much that I would die. Like she said, the bullets didn't go through. They were probably lodged somewhere in my body, I thought. Slowly, my breathing became more regular, even if the drawing in was sharp and the out was slow. I said, "Thank you, Renee."

She blinked and replied, "Don't mention it." She glanced down, as if trying to think of something to say.

"Can you sit up?"

I pulled my arms under me and attempted to. My arms felt like limp noodles. I was about to collapse when she put her hands under me and lifted me up and against her. Fire still burned uncontrollably through my veins, but that all seemed dulled now. She laid one arm across my shoulders, her fingers lightly touching the place where I'd been shot. Her other hand supported my back. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. Again, it was hard to say something that made sense, that mattered.

She moved the hand that draped on my shoulders to the back of my head, which was now sticky with sweat. She pulled herself back and looked at me. It bothered me when I couldn't read the emotions on someone's face. Her lips were turned up in a half-smile. She was so beautiful: blue eyes, dark red hair. Even beyond that, she had strength, courage, compassion. I couldn't understand what she'd want with a guy like me. She'd seen me shaking in seizures, dying on a stretcher, grimacing from a stab wound she inflicted, and here, bleeding and just returning from the hell of the past hour.

I said, "I'm sorry."

She frowned. "Whatever for?"

How could I tell her? No. I couldn't. I shut out any thoughts otherwise. I met her eyes and held her gaze.

She answered her own question, "There's nothing to be sorry for."

What I wanted to tell her was it was my fault. Everything was my fault. She was suicidal because of me. She lost her job because of me. Everything in her life fell apart because of me. But the firmness in her response gave me hope. Could she really look past all of that?

I'm not good at expressing feelings, but I felt them ravaging my heart more than the pain from getting shot. I thought if I didn't say something, anything, I would burst. I thought I would never get this opportunity again, only a few minutes before. I had nearly given my life without a second glance. The realization that I could have been dead now, and with her looking over me, was unbearable. Tears welled in my eyes, partly from pain, mostly from anguish. I looked down. I didn't sob. I fought back tears and felt my voice come back as a tiny whisper.

"I almost lost you."

"I almost lost you."

Her voice nearly blotted out my own words. Ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance. I pulled myself back together and said, "Thank you. You saved my life."

She shrugged. I looked back at her. Her eyes were puffy and red. She replied, "Anyone would have done the same. You don't have to say thank you."

I heard the screech of tires and the blaring of the alarms. Flashing lights bounced off the buildings, coloring the shadows. She pulled me to my feet. I walked slowly, limping, short of breath. But she was there to support me, and with her I stood.

If only life could always be as real as it was now.

I, much like Jack Bauer in the last episode, have come back from the land of the dead. ...24 writers. ANYWAYS, as always, I do not own 24 or any characters thereof.

What did you think? Got sorta gushy towards the end, but I'm a girl, so I don't care. XD Please review! I really do read your comments and take encouragement from them.

Forever your enslaved writer, AE